What-where-when redux:

What-where-when redux: Places, a guide to the most appropriate music for anyplace you might find yourself. (You can add some, too, if you’re so inspired.)

An anemic remix, a squirtgun that isn’t regulation chartreuse, three fast cars, two bad puns, and some incoherent edits:

An anemic remix, a squirtgun that isn’t regulation chartreuse, three fast cars, two bad puns, and some incoherent edits: The relevant details gleaned from last night’s viewing of the so-called controversial Madonna video lensed by Guy Ritchie. The slightly hysterical intro by a tongue-tripping Kurt Loder proved more compelling than the video itself, which wasn’t nearly as car-chase disturbing as, say, “Thelma and Louise” or even “Bye, Bye, Bye.” (An AOL-enabled friend tells me that the whole thing’s available for viewing at keyword: Madonna, but you don’t think that this could be - heaven forbid! - a huge synergy-inspired publicity stunt, could it?)

Maybe there’s hope for the kids after all:

Maybe there’s hope for the kids after all: In a phone-in-and-vote “March Madness of Alternative Rock” weekend promotion sponsored by the modern rock station here in Philadelphia, Weezer came out triumphant. But the best part of that bit of news is the fact that they beat out the Dave Matthews Band. Sure, the hoarily multiculti stadium-fillers have the #1 album in the US this week, but I’d like to look to the future, specifically a future where noodling can be beaten down solidly by hooks. Maybe … maybe … maybe.

“if you think the concept of hip is dead all it means is you’re not hip anymore,”

“if you think the concept of hip is dead all it means is you’re not hip anymore,” i was told today. and just now i came across “the kids are alright” from the washington post—almost out of the semi-lucrative, after all these years, 18-34 demographic, the author is, and the whole of the article is centered around this newer musical generation gap, thongs versus being hot for teacher, the sweetness of ‘nsync versus the foppishness of duran duran. “None of the music I like comes with Parental Advisory stickers and I guess this is my way of knowing I’ve died. I’m supposed to go quietly.” too true, too true.

“Jesus, it’s the inner sleeve of “Goo” all over again”

“Jesus, it’s the inner sleeve of “Goo” all over again”: oh no, it’s just the collection of postcards from makeoutclub.com. POSSIBLE PRE-PUBLICATION CHECKLIST: obligatory references to pop culture from the 1970s (”fat albert,” “CHiPS”) and 1980s (atari), check!; shot of bad shoes, check!; mawkish almost-hallmarky cards that probably are just quotes from a promise ring song or something, check!; way played out ‘you suck’ quasi-ironic sentiments, check!; possibly unintended but still there bloodhound gang reference, check!

(also don’t forget the requisite “boys boys boys plus obligatory sleater-kinney mention to prove that we’re ‘down with the chicks’” stance.)

(also don’t forget the requisite “boys boys boys plus obligatory sleater-kinney mention to prove that we’re ‘down with the chicks’” stance.)

But where shall the twain meet:

But where shall the twain meet: From Michael Bérubés piece on the listmania of popular culture: “To be a really knowledgeable fan, in other words, you usually have to be a keen critic. Remember this the next time you’re accosted by some meerschaum-chomping, muttonchop-wearing columnist for The New Criterion or the National Review: It’s the people who can’t stand popular culture who are truly indiscriminate. Just say to your muttonchop friend, “If you can’t tell the difference between Poison and the Cure, don’t waste my time with your worthless denunciations of what you call ‘rock ‘n’ roll.’”"

Is no musical sacred?

Is no musical sacred? Now playing on the Philadelphia Top 40 station: a song that has lifted the melody for its chorus (”Let’s make love and dance the night away”) wholesale from “Hernando’s Hideaway,” which, a Google search tells me, is actually from “The Pajama Game.” I eagerly await the girl-group shout-out to empowerment set to the “Pippin” dance music that ripped off the music from “Vampyros Lesbos.” No, really.

Well, someone out there still cares about Ricky:

Well, someone out there still cares about Ricky: The video for “She Bangs,” where he plays Super Underwater Heterosexual Man, knocked “Shape of My Heart” out of the number one spot on TRL yesterday. Whether that “someone” consists of teenagers who get off during the “naked people in a box” scene or Sony executives who need the ego boost, however, is still questionable.

A few sort of superficial observations

A few sort of superficial observations on the new-look Spice Girls, formulated after one watching of “Holler” or “Hotter” or “Higher” or whatever it’s called:

• The song really is not very good. Not at all. Bland, boring, no hook to even think of speaking about. It’s no “Spice Up Your Life”; it’s not even a “The Lady Is A Vamp.” Was Geri Haliwell the George Michael of the Spice Girls? Is every remaining Spice an Andrew Ridgeley waiting to happen?
• Okay, I take that back about Melanie C, who is going to refashion herself into a punk goddess before the decade is over.
• Doesn’t Emma look kind of … squished? I read about controversy over the Melanie C appearance status (although she doesn’t look like she’s gained too much weight, she’s just lost tone here and there; this in no way diminishes her status as Hot Spice), but Emma definitely looks the strangest, in both publicity photos and the new, also very boring video. Perhaps it is a result of her lack of bangs.
• You don’t vocode Melanie C. Corollary: You don’t vocode anything around Melanie C. That single with Bryan Adams—Bryan freaking Adams!—should have taught the producers this. But they were probably too busy laying eleventy bazillion tracks on every inch of music to think of anything else.
• This overproduction does, however, make Victoria’s voice sound somewhat … in key. Presentable, even.
• But Melanie C! Oh to listen to her voice, unhindered! I now want to hear her record more Joan Jett songs! With Joan Jett, a la the “Rebel Girl” single!
• The Melanie whose last initial isn’t C—what is her last initial, again? Oh, that’s right. NO ONE CARES. That’s what happens when you name your baby after a borough.
• The Spice Girls are not Destiny’s Older Sisters. Can someone please write this down on a Post-It and stick it somewhere?

I am very disappointed. (NOTE: this is coming from someone who really, really enjoyed one of the first post-Geri departure shows; I don’t have standards all that high to begin with)